


Afternoon At Sotheby’s

by RedRoseWhite



Category: Madonna - Fandom
Genre: Barebacking, Bondage, Dom/sub, Enthusiastic Consent, F/M, Misogynistic name-calling, Money Shot, Oral Sex, RPF, Spanking, Wanton Destruction of Lingerie, everyone is into it, real person fiction - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-05
Updated: 2020-04-05
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:08:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23491432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedRoseWhite/pseuds/RedRoseWhite
Summary: Madonna is tired of being the boss, so she goes to Pierre’s workplace, where *he* is the boss. There’s a cheeky little easter egg hidden in here, for careful readers.
Relationships: Madonna/Pierre Dolmans
Kudos: 1





	Afternoon At Sotheby’s

What r u doing?” Pierre's phone asked in tidy contrasting letters, typed on the tasteful charcoal lock screen.  
It vibrated one more time before he picked it up and swiped it to reply. It felt warm from being in the patch of sun that fell on his blotter. Outside was the hottest spring day on record.  
“Working. And you?”  
“Working. Gettin v bored with bossing ppl around today.”  
He was about to type back, but paused when he saw the three slate dots pop up. “If I come over there, will you boss ME around?” Pierre leaned on his elbow, slowly and lightly rubbing his finger over his bottom lip, before he answered.  
“Yes.” he texted back. After that, he put his phone aside and didn't even look at it again. 

The air was hot even underground, in the parking complex beneath Pierre's office. Right above the  
tops of her stockings, Madonna could feel sweat on her thighs as she climbed out of the car. She  
straightened her wrap dress by tugging on it and put her handbag over her shoulder in the same  
motion, perched her sunglasses on top of her head and peered around, looking for the elevator. It  
opened smoothly, lit on the inside, like the eye of a reptile. Her bracelet ticked against the gunmetal  
buttons as she chose Pierre's floor. She knew where to find him, she'd dealt with Sotheby's before. 

The chubby little receptionist didn't even ask her to sit down. Madonna walked through the glass  
doors, smiled at the homely girl in a headset, and said; “Good afternoon, I'm here to see Mr.  
Dolmans”. She pulled her sunglasses off, and one of the arms pulled a lock of her hair up. It lay  
crooked on top of her head as she dropped them into her handbag. The receptionist used one hand to dial Pierre's extension with a click of her mouse, and the other fished around under her desk, in what must have been a small fridge, because she pulled out a bottle of cool water as she was telling Pierre that he had a visitor. She twisted the top just enough to break the seal and put it on the counter, obviously for Madonna to take, which she did, her wayward lock of hair wavering. Then she turned a small tablet with a stylus to Madonna and said; “Very good, please sign in, and then you may head straight to Pierre's office. It's the last one on your left. Just write your initials and press the button, please.” She scribbled “M.C.” in loops that went beyond the line on all sides and tapped the button thatwasn't a button, just an image of one, with her thumb.  
“Thank you for the water,” she said kindly, raising the bottle a little, as she moved to walk past the  
reception area.  
“It's very hot outside,” the receptionist smiled, taking the tablet from the counter, turning back to her computer-controlled telephone.  
“You should have knocked.” Pierre said, once she'd closed the door behind her. He was still working on  
something, his computer throwing pearly light across his face. The only other light in the room was from the windows along one wall, more than a dozen floors up.  
“You were expecting me,” Madonna retorted.  
“Do you want me to boss you around, or not.” He looked up at her, clenching his jaw, because he was  
trying not to smile.  
“Yes, sir,” she did smile at him, and gestured a little with her bottle of water, then took a swig of it.  
“Come here.” He said, pushing back from the desk, standing between it and the window. He pointed to  
a spot on the floor in front of him. His chair rolled away and loomed behind him, an ash halo. She  
paused, dropped her handbag near the door, then walked to where he was pointing. Her thighs felt  
sweaty all over again.  
“Look at yourself,” he said. “Your hair is fucked up, there are sweat stains on your dress, you're  
swigging from a disposable water bottle, and you've forgotten how to knock.” Madonna put the bottle down on his desk, as if that would please him. “I think you're a trashy, disrespectful bitch.”  
“What if I am?” She said quietly, smoothing her hair so it fell tidily again. “What do you do to trashy bitches?” Without breaking eye contact, Pierre picked up the still-cool water and tipped it deliberately over Madonna's breasts, as if he were pouring wine. It soaked the fabric of her dress, rushed in finger-width stripes over her stomach. She breathed in sharply. Splashes of water the size of quarters were scattered around her on the oyster-coloured carpet, and he was just standing there, looking at her, and the way her dress was clinging to her body. He could see the outline of her bra.  
“I'm sorry, sir,” she said, just above a whisper, standing completely still as her body cascaded with the sensation of the cold water. That feeling was at war with the heat inside, how excited she was to be humiliated. He stepped back, threw the bottle into the granite wastebasket next to his desk and told her; “ Show me.” Then he pulled up his chair and sat down in it, leaning back, with his legs open, like a king. Looking at her feet, Madonna tugged the tie on her wrap dress, unravelling the bow that kept it closed. The dress fell open, she pulled it from her arms, and left it on the floor. Pierre stared openly at her body; she wore a bra and panties of plain lace, stockings the colour of smoke, and high heels. Her skin shone a little, where it was still wet. Just before she dropped to her knees, he noticed two small, narrow scars on her abdomen. Her knees went damp from the tiny puddles on the carpet as she crawled toward his shoes. Rectangles of early-afternoon sunlight coming through the high-rise plate glass warmed her back, Pierre could see the fine hairs illuminated at the base of her spine, ending where the elastic of her thong began. The sound of the printer starting up thudded dully on the other side of the door. He stared at her, crawling on the carpet, and suddenly she looked up at him, her  
enormous eyes peering out from behind a few locks of hair. She reached the spot between his shoes and sat back on her heels, then reached up to run her fingers down his thighs, scratching with her nails. He undid his belt, gestured for Madonna to finish opening his fly. She bit her lip in concentration while she undid the button and took down the zipper. Just as she was slipping her hand in to touch his cock, Pierre grabbed her wrist to stop her. “ In the middle drawer of my desk, there is a pair of scissors.  
Bring them to me.” She opened her mouth questioningly and hesitated to turn and move to his desk.  
He smacked her cheek with an open hand, and pointed to the drawer.  
Madonna obeyed him, turning her face away so that he wouldn't see her smiling. She relished the sting on her skin while she opened the drawer, and sat for a moment, crooked, so that her heel put pressure on her burning pussy. The scissors lay under a small pile of post-it notes, and she pulled them out carefully. They were heavy, all metal, and cool when she wrapped her hand around the blades. “Hand them to me. Don't turn around.” She obeyed him, then felt a thin chill on her hip as Pierre slipped the scissors under the fine lace of her thong and cut, on one side, then the other. He put the scissors down on his desk, yanked the thong from between her legs and heard her breath speed up. Holding it bunched in his hand, Pierre stood and used his other hand to push Madonna face down to the floor, her cheek pressed into the carpet. She shut her eyes while he used her thong to tie her hands behind her back. She put her weight on one knee, then the other, rubbing her thighs together. Her labia were slippery and swollen. Once Pierre sat back down, Madonna experimentally tried to pull her wrists apart, but they were firmly tied. Her clit ached to be touched.  
“Now, trashy bitch,” Pierre said grasping her arm above the elbow, roughly pulling her so that she  
would turn to face him. “Now, you're allowed to suck my dick.”  
She positioned her sticky pussy on her heel again while she knelt at his feet, silently watching him  
bring his prick out of his fly. It wasn't fully hard yet, and she had to lean in close, her nose brushing the  
fabric of his trousers, to lick the tip. She crawled forward on her knees and painted his glans with her saliva, then blew on it gently, watching the skin on his shaft flush. He moaned and put his hand on the back of her head, in her hair, but didn't push, because he was a gentleman. Madonna wrapped her lips around his cockhead and started working her whole mouth on it, feeling him throb against her tongue. It only took a slight movement of her hips to rub her wet, aching pussy back and forth on her shoe. Giving head had never been her favourite, but he was clean and he smelled good, and she did like being on her knees. He moaned again, his breath catching, as Madonna sucked on the length of his cock. The tingling in her pussy crawled all the way up her spine and into her belly. He was fully hard now, his veins stuck out, and when she pulled away, the head was swollen and it left a salty taste of pre-cum at the back of her throat. She pressed kisses to his balls and dragged her tongue over them lightly. Pierre sighed happily, then took his hand away from her hair to rub his cheek. She took the head in her mouth, sucked his shaft again, licked the underside. He was so hard, and his balls were tight. She worried for a moment that he was going to cum on her face, but he said “Enough.” Madonna sat up and looked at him, her  
tongue peeking out from between her lips, licking them. Her wrists were cramping, and she twisted her arms a little, which pushed her tits out. Pierre gazed at them, white skin and pink nipples behind dark lace. Then he moved to grab and pull her up, then shove her down so that she was bent over the desk.  
The scissors were right next to her cheek, Madonna stared at their silver blades shining in the  
mellowing afternoon sun. Pierre's blotter felt soft and cool on her stomach. Being yanked around  
made her a little lightheaded, and she lay there dreamily, curling and uncurling her toes, the silky stockings slipping smoothly around in her shoes. She shifted her shoulders and arms again to keep her wrists from getting too stiff, then felt Pierre grab the thong with one hand and tug, while he used the other hand to shove his dick at her opening. Leaning over Madonna's body, he put his hand down on the desk, rested his weight on it and pushed all the way into her slippery cunt.  
“Ah!” She cried out at being penetrated so suddenly. Pierre crushed her with his body, fucking her easily, she was so wet. Her shoulder blades burned while he pulled on her wrists, like a harness. Being pinned, bound, the dry tongue in her mouth and the hard desk under her belly, everything felt so good.  
She moaned, softly at first, then louder, and he shushed her harshly. She moaned again to test him, so he stopped thrusting long enough to pull off his tie and stuff it in her mouth while he loomed over her.  
Letting go of her wrists, Pierre grabbed her hips with both hands and rode her while she drooled all  
over his tie, inhaling his aftershave. It went on and on, his big dick reaming her pussy. Madonna  
started pushing back on his cock to hurry him up and he fought to hold her still, his fingers leaving  
oblong pressure marks on her skin. The room was filled with the quiet noise of Pierre breathing heavily and Madonna panting through her nose, the rustle of his clothes as he moved. She bit down on the crumpled silk of Pierre's tie, the fabric feeling strange between her teeth. Resting her sweaty cheek on the desk, she sucked on the tie, making it wet with saliva so that it wouldn't stick to her tongue, then spat it out. Over one shoulder, she craned to look back at him, to see that his face was flushed and sweating, like hers.  
“Cum in me, do it,” she said, softly. He opened his eyes, thrust harder, faster. Madonna watched  
Pierre until his eyes closed again, then rested her forehead on the desk and took his pounding.  
“Unh, don't tell me what to do, slut,” He said in a strained voice, then yanked his prick out of her and  
held it over her ass, splashing her with semen. Some of it slid down her thigh in a warm dribble and soaked into the top of her stocking. He worked his hand around his cock , leaving streaks of cum on her skin, panting, leaning over her. Madonna listened to his breathing slow down again. The soft sounds of him adjusting his clothes while he put his cock away. Then the scissors clicked against the desk as Pierre grabbed them up, pressing one hand between her shoulder blades to hold her down and using the other to snip Madonna free of her bindings. Pierre used the shredded thong to wipe his cum from her skin. Her arms tingled as she spread them out and gripped the front of the desk. He knelt behind her, plucked at her stocking with his teeth, then pulled her cheeks open and ate her asshole, the tip of his strong tongue squirming over it in circles.  
“Please,” Madonna gasped, pushing back on him, “I wanna cum... I'm so ready... suck my clit.”  
He rose and stood in the shadowy spot next to the desk, and Madonna felt suddenly warm as the sun  
shone on her skin.  
“Come here, and beg me again,” He told her. In a moment, she stood before him, in her bra, cum-  
drenched stockings, and shoes, her thighs smeared and her lipstick blurry. Pierre gazed at her, his face  
revealing nothing.  
“Please, ” she said, making eye contact with his stony expression. She wanted to provoke him, and even if he didn't make her cum, she would just do it herself, at home, in her shower. She could smell her own sweat in her hair. “Please eat me out.” Reaching up to scratch his eyebrow, Pierre looked bored.  
Madonna strolled right up to him, tossed her hair back, and sloppily licked his cheek. When she pulled back, the light illuminated a tiny spit bubble on his stubble, perfectly round. “Do that,” she said evenly, staring steadily at him, “But on my pussy. ” He immediately grabbed her hair, raking his fingers close to her scalp, holding her firmly.  
“Ow! Ow, ow,” Madonna said, bending down as he dragged her by her hair.  
“You fucking uppity whore,” He said. They sank to the floor together, the carpet soft under Madonna's  
knees. She was forced to put her ass in the air and Pierre used his grip on her hair to press her cheek to the floor. He settled in a kneeling position next to her and spanked her fiercely, precisely, several  
times, leaving her ass cheeks hot and tingling. The printer outside whirred again. Madonna tried to  
get her hand under her body so that she could rub her clit, but Pierre let go of her hair and simply said; “ Now.” She knew what he meant, and with relief she moved to lie on her back, next to the desk. He started by putting his open mouth on her pussy, so that she was engulfed with wet warmth, then licking her up and down. She was so wet already; he felt like he was drinking from her. He sucked on her labia, her clit, her opening, then licked her with long, hard strokes, feeling her shoes brush his shoulders while she moved to get his tongue where she wanted it. Madonna wrapped her hands around her thighs and held them open, panting helplessly. Nothing in the world existed except for her aching, creamy pussy and Pierre's insistent tongue. She tilted her hips to get his tongue right below her clit, and he gave her what she wanted by flicking the tip up and down. Then Pierre saw her thigh twitching and the swelling of her labia and slowed down, swirling in lazy licks right at the mouth of her pussy. Her nails grated on her stockings and he smugly sucked a sweet gush of fluid out of her.  
Madonna squirmed and moaned when he pushed his tongue inside her slit, then again when he  
withdrew, sucked her clit into his mouth, and licked it. Lifting her hips to press her cunt against his  
face, she let go of her thighs and put both hands on his head. He sucked her clit harder, sliding two  
fingers up inside her, and then Madonna came, slamming a hand over her mouth, shuddering on the floor, pulling on his hair with one hand and pushing on his shoulder with one foot. When she was still, Pierre wiped his face on the inside of her thigh and sat up. She didn't move.  
“Are you all right?” He asked.  
“Can I have some more water?” She asked in a small, croaky voice. Pierre stood and straightened his shirt, tucked it in, quickly checked for smears, then left her in his office while he went to get a bottle of water. Madonna got up gracefully from the floor and rubbed her hands over the tops of her stockings to make sure they were dry, then wrapped herself in her dress again. She was just tying it as Pierre returned holding another bottle like the one the receptionist had given her. He watched her pick her ruined panties up off the desk, and slip them into her handbag. She spun around and took the drink from him, saying, “Thank you,” meaningfully, as their fingers brushed. 

The storm that came later was lashing Pierre's windows. He closed his laptop for a moment to watch the patterns the water made on the glass, imitated the sound of the rain by tapping his pencil on the blotter. The graphite left tiny dots. At the reception desk, a bicycle courier in a poncho was streaming water on the floor as he waited for the receptionist to sign for the package. It was the size of a paperback book, plainly addressed, softer than a stack of paper. Pierre's phone beeped.  
“Yes, Heather?” He said.  
“There is a package for you at reception. Would you mind coming to get it? Mr. Dovestone is calling  
any minute, and I can't miss him.” Once back at his desk, he reached into the drawer to get his  
scissors, and carefullly slit open the envelope. He held it above his blotter and shook it, and out fell a  
cut-up thong, and a paper that read: “ I bought these at Agent Provocateur. You owe me $750. - M”  
Smiling to himself, he wrote out a cheque.


End file.
